Storm clouds gather

Sound of snoring in my ear. Afraid to open my eyes – the lids are stuck together, anyway. Where am I? I force my eyes open. Perkins is stretched out across the back of my armchair – fast asleep. I sit up quickly. It’s not that I don’t like cats, but I don’t want one sitting on my head. At my sudden movement, Perkins wakes. He gives me one of those looks cats give you: a mixture of contempt and pity. Then he yawns and closes his eyes again.
I look across; the armchair opposite is empty: no sign of its previous occupant. Have I been dreaming? Did I imagine that weird conversation about religion? I am beginning to seriously doubt myself when I catch sight of the dozen or so empty bottles lying on the hearthrug. No idea of the time. The lights in the room are still on, but I can’t see any clock and there’s no sound at all in the house. I am completely alone – except for the fish, which stare at me in their vacuous fishy way.

I am about to panic, but my armed forces training kicks in. Prioritise. Obviously the first thing is to find out the time. I grope my way into the kitchen – all the other lights in the house have been turned off. After an age of feeling around the walls, I locate the switch. The fluorescent tube buzzes, flickers and blinks – then fails completely. But in that brief burst of strobe I glimpsed the cooker. Now, navigating by the faint green beacon of its clock, I cross the dark kitchen, like a crippled bomber making its final approach, until I am near enough to read the time: 1.47.

I ought to be in bed, but therein lies a problem, three problems. I enumerate them. 1) I am not all that familiar with the geography of this house, and I don’t want to go switching lights on for fear of waking its occupants and having to face the ensuing hostility. So how am I going to find my room? 2) Do I actually have a room? I had become so enthralled in our theological discussion that I had forgotten to ask Myra if she had okayed the room swap with Carole. 3) My head feels swollen and heavy (I am sure Myra put something in that last Guinness) somewhat dulling my usually razor-sharp mind.

I turn and make my way back to the lounge. There is no sign of the deflated ‘blow-up’ bed, so that’s a good omen, or so I think. I am terribly thirsty, and desperately in need of a pee. Just in time I remember the non-functionality of the downstairs water closet. Okay, it will have to be the first floor bathroom. After that comes the big test: finding my bedroom.

Taking off my shoes I start to creep upstairs, like an inexperienced and very timid burglar. As I cautiously climb, keeping to the outside edge of each step so as to minimise the creak of a faulty stair. Then another worry floats up from the murky depths of my tired mind: Anastasia. It’s that fellow Adams’ fault of course: if he had not alarmed her with his irresponsible comment – which was, of course, complete rubbish - she would not have not have seen Myra as being any kind of threat. But anyway, she won’t turn up here; I think her reaction was of the Swedish knee-jerk variety.

I reach the first-floor landing and can breathe normally once again. Suddenly there is a loud knock at the front door – actually it’s more of a rat a tat tat! Bloody hell! It can’t be – I’m going to faint. I wonder if there’s a ‘Men’s Refuge’ in Hendon.